


He Took It Out On Me (I Took It Readily)

by dear_monday



Series: A Kiss With A Fist [2]
Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Alternate Universe - Killjoys, M/M, Unrequited Love, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-28
Updated: 2011-11-28
Packaged: 2017-10-26 15:43:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/285001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dear_monday/pseuds/dear_monday
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Sometimes, in the brief spaces where Frank's still coming down, Poison watches him out of the corners of his eyes, and he – wonders.</i> Written for the <a href="http://anon_lovefest.livejournal.com">anon_lovefest</a> prompt: "Frank/Poison, to make Gerard jealous."</p>
            </blockquote>





	He Took It Out On Me (I Took It Readily)

Frank's got Poison up against the wall in a dark, cramped hallway of another Fuck You house, his fingers digging painfully into the soft places under Poison's collarbones. He's an overprotective fucker; all Poison did was brush Gerard's tangled hair out of the way and kiss the nape of his pale neck, but Gerard obviously went crying to Frank who's now treating it like the start of World War IV.

"Fucking son of a _bitch_ , don't you fucking _dare_ touch him again," Frank snarls, all teeth and narrowed eyes. Poison lets the silence drag just long enough for Frank to start to look unsure of himself, and his smile is slow and nasty.

"Or _what?_ " he breathes, daring Frank. He licks his lips, filthy and unashamed, an unmistakeable challenge, and that's when Frank snaps. He makes a furious, animal noise, grabbing a handful of Poison's greasy, neon-red hair and slamming his head against the wall. He's even angrier than Poison thought, and stronger, _fuck_ , and Poison's vision swims dangerously for a moment. Then, he bares his teeth in something that isn't quite a grin, and drives his foot into Frank's knee. Frank buckles with a choked-off cry and Poison's on him in a second, twisting his arm up behind his back and wrenching his head back. Frank wanted a fight, and Poison's going to give him one.

" _Fucker_ ," Frank grinds out, writhing and struggling under Poison like a man possessed. Poison slackens his hands for a split second to get a better grip, and somehow Frank manages to slip away and stumble to his feet. Poison grabs at the hem of Frank's t-shirt and yanks himself up, ripping the sweaty cotton and revealing skin and ink. They circle each other for a still, suspended moment, both still trying to get the measure of the other and neither one willing to make the next move. Eventually, Frank lunges forward with a punch that Poison only just manages to dodge, stepping out of its way and managing to get an elbow into Frank's stomach. Frank doubles over, hissing and cursing, and Poison takes advantage to catch Frank's jaw with a quick, nasty upper-cut. But Frank's tougher than he looks, too, and he straightens up even as a thread of blood dribbles out of the corner of his mouth. Poison yanks hard on Frank's hair, then lets go abruptly with a bitten-off snarl as Frank twists and sinks teeth sink into Poison's forearm. Poison shoves Frank backwards, angry enough now that he's beyond intent or strategy, just wants Frank to _hurt_. Frank's shoulders hit the wall, and he hisses with pain as Poison crowds into his space. And then – _oh_.

A dirty smile unfolds across Poison's face as he leans into Frank and his suspicions are confirmed. That's Frank's dick, hot and hard against his thigh. Frank doesn't make excuses or try to hide it, just tilts his chin up defiantly – _yeah? What are you gonna do?_

Poison rolls his hips experimentally against Frank's, and Frank's breath hitches. He doesn't fight when Poison kicks his feet apart, opting instead for hooking his fingers into the back of Poison's jacket and yanking him closer.

"Mother _fuck_ ," he groans, rubbing shamelessly against Poison's thigh, and Poison digs his fingers into Frank's hips, needing the friction. Frank whines, and bites down on Poison's collarbone, and Poison's hips buck reflexively against Frank's.

"Fucker, that's gonna leave a mark," Poison says indistinctly. Frank moans, full-throated and filthy.

"Like I – oh, _fuck_ , like I give a shit," he retorts, his rhythm faltering as Poison sticks one hand up his damp t-shirt and pinches Frank's nipple between his forefinger and thumb. "Motherfucker, oh my god, fuck _you_ – "

Poison drops his other hand to Frank's ass, grinding against him while Frank gasps obscenities into Poison's neck.

"God, look at you." Poison's voice is low and rough, catching a little on the exhaled ghost of a laugh. "You this easy for anyone who'll smack you around a bit, or is it my sparkling personality?"

"Look who's fucking _talking_ , Jesus Christ. Is that – ahh, is that a raygun in your pocket, 'joyboy, or are you just pleased to see me?"

The nickname sounds as mocking from Frank as it did from Gerard, but there's something about the way Frank is pressing himself desperately against Poison that takes the sting out of it. With a final volley of curses, Frank's mouth suddenly goes slack and as he stills, shaking, and comes in his pants like a fucking teenager. It doesn't take Poison much longer to follow him over the edge after that, pinning Frank down until his aftershocks have finished with him. Poison steps back with a lazy, vulpine smile and Frank says nothing, just stares at him for a long moment, still breathing hard, then spits on the ground and wipes his mouth on the back of his hand before he walks away.

+

The next time it happens, Frank finds Poison about half an hour after word of Gerard starting a riot at a show does. The storm that's been hovering all week broke earlier, the bloated, livid clouds opening up and falling on the desert in fat, blood-warm drops. Frank's soaked through when he fetches up at the old diner's back door, bruised and cut and scraped and wild-eyed. Poison's – sort of surprised, actually. He doesn't know why _he's_ the one Frank would come to, but he's not going to pass up the chance to take his time properly over Frank, spread him out and make him scream. Instead, he schools his face into his favourite shit-eating grin and leans against the doorframe, hip cocked and eyes wide.

"A house call?" he says. "Well, well, well. Aren't I a lucky girl?"

Frank's eyes are unfocussed, drops of rain dripping from the ends of his hair and his eyelashes, his t-shirt semi-transparent and clinging to every line of him. He's twitchy as hell, and he doesn't look like he heard a word Poison said.

"You gonna fucking let me in?" Frank asks. Poison thinks about it. He can hear Jet's reedy voice and Kid's low monotone arguing about fucking spark plugs or something in the diner's kitchen, punctuated by occasional bursts of Ghoul's high-pitched stoner giggle. Fuck them, Poison decides. It's not like he hasn't had to hear them all hooking up and jerking off over the years. He knows what every single one of them sounds like when they come – hell, he's seen Ghoul's O-face, for fuck's sake, they can deal with this. Privacy is sort of an abstract concept these days anyway, and it's not like anyone's got much left to mentally scar anymore.

"Sure. Step into my office, then, motorbaby." Poison turns away to head inside without checking to see if Frank's following.

"So, I heard about the show," he says conversationally as he leads Frank up the back stairs. "Sounds like a good time. A regular fucking train wreck."

Frank says nothing, which means he doesn't want to talk about it, so Party carries on as he pushes open the door of the room where he sleeps.

"Your little dollface of a singer make it out okay? I'm kind of surprised you're here instead of taking care of him. I thought that was, like, your _thing_."

And there it is, like Poison's pressed the big red button. Frank hisses, nasty and feral, and before Poison even knows what's happened, he's pushed up against the wall again, Frank's eyes burning into him.

"Oooh," Poison says, grinning again. "Talk about déjà vu. Haven't we done this part before?"

"Shut _up_." Frank shoves him for emphasis. "I don't. Want to talk. About. The fucking _show_."

Poison works one hand free of Frank's rain-slippery grip to grab his ass through his wet jeans. "Alright," he says. "But I think we could not-talk about it better with you on your knees."

+

It's _much_ better with Frank on his knees. And, later that night, on his back, and bent over the little formica table, and then on his knees again. Frank's a fucking animal, scratching and biting and gripping too hard. Poison lies there after Frank's gone and counts his bruises. He knows he left Frank with at least as many, and he falls asleep thinking about how fucking _good_ Frank sounded begging for his cock.

+

The thing is, it happens again. And again, and again, and again. Frank's always angry when he comes to Poison; Poison takes to guessing what happened this time (a bar fight, another riot, Gerard going on another bender) by the set of Frank's jaw and the way he digs his fingers into Poison's hips and sinks his teeth into the curve between Poison's neck and his shoulder. It happens in filthy bathrooms and tiny, dark closets, sometimes in the diner, sometimes just in an empty hallway, once or twice in the back seat of the Trans Am. Frank's impatient, always wanting too much too fast and bitching when Poison spends too long spreading him open with his fingers, and when Frank isn't around Poison keeps finding himself with his hand on his cock and Frank's desperate, broken gasps of _harder, motherfucker_ ringing in his ears. Frank's never a prettier picture than when he's begging for more, wanting it to hurt, but after a while, Poison starts to realise that it isn't the pain Frank likes, not really. He likes to hurt and be hurt, sure, but it seems to be more about some kind of catharsis. Release, for sure, but of what, Poison doesn't know. Whatever it is, it certainly isn't affection or intimacy he's hooked on; Frank doesn't kiss. Ever. Not Poison, anyway.

+

Sometimes, in the brief spaces where Frank's still coming down, Poison watches him out of the corners of his eyes, and he – wonders.

+

"What is this, really?" Poison asks one day, stretching out and enjoying the soreness in his muscles, the warm spots of pain.

"Shut up." Frank's voice is low and dangerous, a warning, and Poison's suddenly alert and of course he can't drop it now.

"No, seriously, I'm curious," he says. "You've got Gerard right there, wouldn't that be easier than running to me every time? He'd let you fuck him, if you asked. Probably put up less of a fight, too, and he's got my fucking face. Come on, I _know_ I'm missing something here."

"Shut up. I mean it, Poison, leave this the fuck alone." Frank's suddenly on his feet, fists clenched and eyes blazing, jaw set, and Poison's getting close and he knows it. He searches Frank's face, studies the way Frank's watching him, wary, but there's something else there, something like –

"Oh," Poison breathes, wide-eyed as the revelation hits him. " _Oh_. Oh, fuck. I've got it the wrong way round, haven't I? It's not that he's got my face – " Frank turns away so his face is shadowed as he struggles into his t-shirt, but his hands are shaking and Poison _knows_ he's right. " – it's that I've got _his_."

"Fucking – stop it. You don't know what you're talking about," says Frank coldly, but his voice cracks a little, and Poison can't stop, won't stop, has to push.

"I'm right, aren't I? _That's_ what this is about, you're here so you can take it out on me instead of hurting – "

Frank whirls around, shoving Poison backwards and hissing _shutupshutupshutup_ like he can stop it being true. Poison gets it now; it isn't him Frank's seeing when he's on his back, on his knees, not Poison he's seeing when he bites and twists and screams and _hurts_. Poison shoves back, and it's like all the fight's suddenly gone out of Frank.

"Don't..." he starts weakly. There's something dark and ragged and desperate in his eyes and Poison can't believe he didn't see it before. Poison laughs, loud in the small room, because this is even better than he'd hoped, almost too good to be true.

"Don't what?" he says, stroking Frank's cheek pityingly. "Don't tell the world? Don't tell _him?_ Sugar, I think the time when you could tell me what to do is _long_ gone."


End file.
